Mind Games
by Pozagee
Summary: AU. The Prisoner has been under SHIELD's custody for nearly a year now. After countless interogators, Fury calls upon one Tony Stark to get to the bottom of everyone's biggest question: Who REALLY was behind the attack on "Manhattan"? Warning for language and character death.


It was a harsh reality, truly. It wasn't unexpected, though – he had been debriefed on what to expect. But even though he was told – in excruciating detail, I might add – the state in which the Prisoner was in...it was just something unexpected.

'How can you expect the unexpected when you are expecting the unexpected and it still turns out to be the unexpected?' Tony Stark asked himself. Normally, the billionare would chuckle at the confusing path his train of thoughts lead...but not today.

He had ventured out of his lab today – an amazing feat, in itself – and went to SHIELD's base. The base was a mighty expanse of land, complete with armed-to-the-teeth soldiers and high-tech buildings. Of course, most of the 'magic' happened underground.

Beneath the large metallic buildings laid an extremely complex and complicated labyrinth of labs, tunnels, and training facilities. There were guards and such here as well, only they were now mixed in with rather strict 'doctors' in lab-coats. Tony kept his million-watt smile (smirk) on his face as he lazily walked through the facility; he found it hilarious that the scientists had to wear lab-coats, when he could wear whatever he pleased. He waved his hand a bit, as though flaunting his superiority.

Tony Stark never really liked SHIELD. For one, it reminded him of his father, and Tony tended to try and forget things he didn't like. They were also not one hundred percent good... Sure they had good intentions, but the means of accomplishing said good intentions...well, they were slightly questionable.

True, they would scarcely subject someone to torture; oh no, torture was a nasty, harsh word – something that was not even permitted at the base. It was a known fact, however, that such methods were applied elsewhere, in more hostile and barbaric locations. SHIELD did – after all – have SOME standards.

What they were doing to the Prisoner – as the man was scarcely referred to by his actual name – was not considered torture, by any means. True, what the doctors and scientists were doing couldn't be considered GOOD...but it wasn't torture.

The two C's, they called it: Control and Containment. The Prisoner was a very tricky and manipulative man, you see; he was literally a man straight out of legends.

As Tony strode through SHIELD – oddly comfortable suit making a slight swishing sound and his shoes tapping on the harsh stone – he heard whispers; they knew whom he was here to visit, though how? He had not a clue.

"He's going to see the Prisoner."

"THE Prisoner?"

"Oh, suicidal or mad, he must be."

"For being a genius, he has not a drop of sense, I tell you."

The whispers about him flowed over, through, and around him as easy as air. He was – after all – well accustomed to rumours and such, of uncivilised and rude people; he often heard them talk of him, even as he was within earshot. He was annoyed very much at first, but he learned quickly to let their words be nothing more than a dull mumble to him. Somehow, it was almost calming – how, he was unsure. However, if their voices got too loud, or their hot breath tickled his neck and ear, the dull roar would rise to the incessant buzzing of an irritated summer wasp or bee. Usually – due to the copious amount of power he possessed – a slight wave of the hand and a few choice words would send the little bees back to their hive, however.

Today was no exception. He heard their words – the ones questioning his sanity and thoughts in general – distantly; hearing, but not hearing. Every once in a while, though, a sentence or word would pop out; these didn't directly pertain to him, though.

"Even now he terrifies me."

"It's the eyes. They stare at you. They beg for release, or perhaps something we cannot provide."

"None of the unnatural powers, and yet he causes nearly every visitor to weep in fear, or run out screaming."

There were rumours, too. Impossible ones, they were, seeing as The Prisoner was completely incapacitated and incapable of the feats they spoke of.

Tony laughed at a few of the outrageous ones, causing the talkers to either glower at him or rush off. Power and money were powerful allies, it was true; also, having a dangerous and deadly super-suit at your disposal makes people back away a bit.

All in all, the trek across SHIELD base went better than expected; he hadn't been accosted by a fangirl, nor any Agents summoning him to Nick Fury, for details the man forgot in his debriefing.

He took several turns, up stairs, down escalators, through doors that looked like walls, by walls that looked like doors, until he reached The Door.

It was nothing to speak of, really: A plain metallic door, complete with bolts and several locks. A few guards stood outside, faces as impassive as rocks.

Stark waved his hand at them, eliciting no reaction. He tried several more gestures and faces, but to no avail; the faces remained stony. He was tempted to flick one of them – the one with the large nose and bushy brows – on the head, but Nick Fury chose that minute to arrive.

"Behave, Stark," he reprimanded, an undertone of tiredness making his deep – and actually rather authoritative – voice seem softer. The man looked ill, what with his face drooping and his eye looking near-bloodshot. Tony – of course – knew he looked little better; the battle of Manhattan had effected every party involved. It was still painful and – if the mighty warriors of Shield and the Avengers were to admit it – scary to think about.

He hid behind his mask of nonchalance and unending energy, however; after ruffling his already mussed-up hair, and flashing his smile, Tony replied with a sarcastic, "Yes Sir!" and salute.

Fury merely shot him a rather lacklustre glare. "I mean it, Stark. This situation is hardly a time for joking."

Stark scratched his head, feigning confusion. "Um...remind me again what this 'Situation' is..."

A vein seemed to pulsate upon Fury's brow. "Do NOT make me taser you."

Tony chuckled in a good-naturally sort of way, with an undertone of mischievousness. "Don't get your panties in a bunch, Fury. I know what I'm here for." He rolled his eyes, as though the task set before him was so menial, that it allowed for his typical easy-going style.

Fury quickly endeavoured to correct that: "Mr. Stark...it seems as though you think that this is some sort of joke, or something so trivial that you need to act like an overgrown child. Let me correct you: This is NOT something to be taken lightly, and you should NOT be acting as such."

Stark sighed in melodramatically. "Fine. But why all the security measures and warnings? You said he-"

"Was drugged? His magic locked away? Yes; all true. However – seeing who the prisoner IS – these precautions are necessary. Even in his lowly state, he's still able to use his manipulative words and sharp wits. He's been able to reduce grown men to tears and inspire nightmares into the most hardened soldier. Proceed with caution, Stark."

Tony rolled his eyes again. "You make it sound so ominous – honestly, Fury, I have handled far worse than the likes of him."

"I doubt that," said Fury. "Somehow – though his body has weakened – his mind is as sharp as ever. Be vigilant."

"Ah, Fury. It almost sounds as though you're worried about me." Said man sneered.

"Hardly. But since everyone before you has failed to make him talk-"

Stark looked intrigued. "Everyone before me? Others have tried?"

"Yes," Fury answered, obviously annoyed at having been interrupted. "Rogers, Agents Romanov and Barton, Thor, Banner...even myself," was added reluctantly.

"Ah," Stark murmered, before laughing. "But he has yet to go up against me. There is quite a difference between the others and myself."

"Don't get cocky; we don't need you loosing your wits right now," Fury warned, though Tony merely waved a hand.

"No worries, Chief. It's all under control."

Fury – ever the Argus-eye – pinched his lips together. "This is of vital importance, I must impress upon you-"

"Alright, alright; I got it." At Fury's suspicious eye, Tony added, "I may be immature at times, but I take things like this seriously." He forced his face into a mask of solemnity.

Fury sighed, pinching his nose. "Just...get him to talk. Alright."

Tony waved his hand flippantly. "Yeah, yeah. I know." And with that remark, the guards stepped aside, permitting entrance to the room.

Before the suited man went inside, however, a small metal piece was thrust into his ear.

"For security reasons," the one-eyed man explained. Tony rolled his eyes, but left the device in his ear, nonetheless.

The locks were quickly unlocked; passwords beeped into number pads. A loud 'clang' was heard, and the door slid aside. Tony – for all his grandeur – was actually hiding his nervousness and apprehension. He let in a large breath, before venturing within the Prisoner's room.

Brown eyes traveled across the room, taking in it's appearance; it was not a good appearance, truly. The room was a dulled metal, flawlessly smooth, with only a toilet, sink, bedtable, and bed as the furniture – all of which were bolted to either the floor or the walls. The room also had a sputtering light embedded within the ceiling, and a black-domed recorder as well.

Tony really wished there was more to look at, for he did wish to avoid looking at the room's inhabitant – the Prisoner – all together. Unfortunately, his eyes were drawn to the bundle on the bed.

The Prisoner was but a bundle, really; only his head and spindly arms were out of the soft grey blankets. The arms were thin – too thin – and as was the face.

Somehow, Tony felt as though he had stepped into a black and white picture show. The man was incredibly pale, his skin a whitish grey color; perhaps it was because he had not seen sunlight for months...but it was also probably genetics. Hair as black as the dead of night was cut short; well, not exactly short, but shorter than the last time he had seen the Prisoner. The only color was the bright green eyes that were nestled within the man's skull, and an ominous purple color where some liquids were being pumped into his veins.

Tony just stood there, right inside the door, just looking at the weakened man; he scarcely realized the door had been shut behind him.

"You look pale, Stark," the Prisoner spoke, his voice rather raspy.

Tony rolled his eyes, willing himself to act as he normally did. "Don't look too well yourself, Reindeer Games."

A small amount of shock zapped through the overly-bright eyes. "It HAS been a while since I have heard that." Tony mentally berated himself for resorting back to old nicknames.

"I bet so. The name you go by now is rather interesting," he corrected.

The Prisoner looked impassive as ever, only his eyes betraying his emotions. "It is hardly what I would choose. I'm afraid that along with stealing my powers and my pride, they have also decided to make me inanimate."

"It's better than Reindeer Games, I bet you think."

"No," the Prisoner admitted, rather reluctantly. "Honestly, it is the most personal thing I have been called in a long while."

Tony shrugged leaning against the wall. "Hmm. Depressing."

"It...is rather confusing." Tony raised an eyebrow. "When they call me 'the Prisoner', I sometimes forget what I did wrong. It is as though I am stuck in a torturous nightmare, where I am merely a faceless creature shoved into some dark closet to keep out of the way. How long ago did it happen?"

Tony blinked, trying to understand. "How long ago did what happen?"

"You offered me a drink."

Tony actually smiled. "Out of all the things that happened that day, THAT is what you remember?"

"It stands out clearly in my mind. I believe I tried to make you fly."

"You mean tossing me out a window? Yes, that happened soon after the drink incident you – apparently – remember very clearly." The Prisoner gave a sort of shrugging motion, though it seemed to be rather difficult.

"How long?" was asked again.

Tony considered the question. "About eleven months; nearly a year."

"Nearly a year..." the Prisoner echoed, shifting slightly, trying to loosen the blankets; he didn't have much success.

Tony shrugged. "Yeah, well...You still have plenty of time to put in here as our prisoner...trying to enslave humanity: Not a good thing."

The Prisoner had the gall to laugh. "Right, well. I do not believe I will be spending much longer here, anyhow."

Tony stiffened, and he heard crackling on the other end of the device in his ear. "What's he talking about, Stark?! Ask him!" Fury's voice resounded through his head.

"What do you mean?" Tony growled to the Prisoner, rather annoyed; why WOULDN'T Tony ask a question like that.

The man blinked, looking rather dazed. "I am not quite sure...I just have an odd feeling, and usually I go along with my instincts."

"Right..." was his suspicious reply. Tony licked his lips, thinking over the questions he was to ask the Prisoner. Which to ask first, though? There was certainly a large amount of them...

Before he could begin the interrogation, however, the Prisoner spoke.

"I assume you are here to ask me questions, like the others. I must admit I will scarcely reply with something that would resemble an answer; other times I won't reply at all."

"Why are you telling me this?" Tony snapped. This was not how he remembered the prisoner; calm and quiet were not synonyms to insane and mind-controller.

The Prisoner shrugged. "I am merely warning you, so you won't loose you head. Though it is entertaining to watch... Unfortunately, though, I often bare the brunt of the interrogators' frustrations. Barton, I must admit, was most easily tempted; I had those bruises for weeks..."

Tony swallowed, feeling uneasy at how nonchalantly the Prisoner was talking about people beating him up. Then again, maybe the bruises were somewhat interesting to the man; he often healed so fast he was probably interested at how long they lasted...

"Anyway," The Prisoner continued, "To avoid mishaps, the only thing you need to do is ask the right questions."

Tony crossed his arms, a slight pout resting on his face. "And I suppose you won't tell me what the right questions are?"

The Prisoner shook his head.

Tony sighed. "Alright, fine. I'll play your little game."

"Ask away, Stark."

"Have you seen light, since Thor brought you here?"

There was crackling in the microphone again, as though Fury was to rebuke him. The crackling soon subsided, though.

The Prisoner looked slightly surprised at the question. "No...I have been in this room the whole time."

Tony nodded. "Hmm. Boring."

A small smirk flitted across The Prisoner's features. "Yes...though this is hardly physical torture, the boredom is maddening... But...I was already mad, wasn't I? Perhaps my stay has made me sane, again..." He shook his head slightly.

Tony laughed, though it sounded rather uneasy. "With the way you're talking, you don't exactly sound clear-headed."

The Prisoner laughed; it was an odd sound – a combination of a splash happiness, a pinch of madness, and a barely veiled bucket-full of sadness. "Yes, I can imagine. But truly, it is amazing the things you notice whilst being stuck in the same location for such a long period; there is plenty of time to contemplate things."

"Like what?" Tony asked, the question coming almost involuntarily.

The Prisoner shrugged, again. Tony took note of how the man moved very little, as though the drugs being pumped into his system limited mobility to small movements and gestures.

"I suppose," the man answered, "a bit of everything. When you first look at this room, it seems completely smooth and flawless. There is a small crack in the upper right corner...yes, right there." Tony narrowed his dark eyes, trying to pick up on the obviously-minuscule crack that The Prisoner could see. He saw nothing. "And there are exactly three dents in the door; I believe they were caused by fists." Tony shifted again, looking at the door. Nothing. "And the woman who brings me my meals – Miss Bella, I believe – she has bruises on her upper arms; they are shaped like fingerprints, I believe-"

Tony shook his head. "There is something seriously wrong with you."

"I am told that constantly," was shot back immediately. Tony shook his head again, before running a hand through hair.

"Tell me, Stark," The Prisoner said quietly, once again tugging on the obviously uncomfortably-tight covers. "Do you pity me?"

Tony Stark's pride and ego would not allow him such emotions. "Pity?" Tony laughed. "You tried to take over the Earth."

"I had my reasons."

"What were they?!" Tony snapped.

The Prisoner paused, eyebrows shooting up his forehead. "Wrong question to ask, Stark."

Tony rubbed his face, frowning at the ridges of wrinkles and bags that hung like heavy velvet drapes under his eyes; he felt so old, especially after – what he dubbed – 'Manhattan'.

"Fine, fine. Let me see..." Tony tried to think of questions that would help his 'mission' – as Fury called it; unfortunately, he could think of none, no matter the indirectness of it.

True to character, Tony quirked a smile and let a question tumble from his mouth.

"Why do you keep calling me 'Stark'?" Tony asked, before creasing his forehead.

The Prisoner also seemed rather confused, but answered nonetheless. "It is your surname, is it not?"

"Well, yeah. But you end nearly every sentence with my name." In all honesty, the question HAD been gnawing at his consciousness; what was the point?

The Prisoner shrugged, sighing. "I have not noticed...perhaps it helps me remember what happened..."

"How could you forget?! You tried to take over the world, and you destroyed one of the most densely populated cities in the US!" Tony yelped, his eyes 'bugging' oddly.

The Prisoner sighed, waving his hand slightly. "Just that a world exists outside of this room, perhaps. That I am remembered, and I won't be just stowed away in this little closet? Maybe that I used to be known as something else besides the Prisoner? I really just want to remember, and be remembered...no matter how."

The circumstances of the Prisoner's stay at SHIELD base...well, they were strange to say the least. He was such a powerful, dangerous guy that they planned on sending him home with his older brother, so the people there could handle him. Unfortunately, the package was returned, with – basically – a note saying, "Since he picked on YOUR people, YOU have the right to punish him."

But as previously stated, he was so powerful, they were not sure of how to deal with him. So they had pumped him so full of drugs, he was basically paralyzed; shoved him into a small room; and left there to rot.

It was...unimaginable to be in such a small room with very little human contact – at least to Tony. His mind was constantly working, forever creating new ideas and daydreams; only being able to stare at the same surroundings and faces everyday would – according to Tony's overactive imagination – literally melt his brain from the monotonousness of the situation. How the Prisoner – whom was famous for his brilliant mind – could stand it was beyond the famous man.

Green eyes that were ever-observing Tony seemed to grow – dare Tony say it: Excited.

"Stark...be honest. What do you call me?" was asked innocently.

Tony blinked, taken off guard. His microphone crackled, Fury's voice whispering, "Don't go along with his games!"

Tony flicked the volume switch on the mic. "What do you mean?" he asked the Prisoner.

"In your head. What do you refer to me as?" the Prisoner questioned.

Tony paused, for he really did not want to say the name.

"Be honest, Stark."

"I call you the Prisoner," was said stoically, as though it was irrelevant.

The Prisoner's lip curled, though it – somehow – didn't seem as horrible as it had pre-Manhattan.

"I thought as much," was the Prisoner's almost-gentle reply. He set a thin (oh, was it so thin) hand on the metal frame, and slowly (too slowly, way too slowly) sat himself up against the head rest. By the time he was slouched against the freezing bars, the Prisoner's eyes were glassy, and his skin almost translucent with the sweat that dotted his brow and his pallor.

Tony shifted uncomfortably. "Jeas, it's weird seeing you like this..."

The Prisoner rolled his eyes, waving his hand again. "It's merely the potions your Midgardian doctors have forced inside of me." He shook his head. "You really call me the Prisoner?"

"Yes." Tony looked at the ceiling, before the floor; there was an odd – almost painful – feeling in his stomach. "Well, everyone does! Your name is basically taboo."

"I am aware. The others refered to me as such, as well. Even Thor."

The flip-flopping, raw, stinging feeling worsened. "Exactly. You did bad things, and you can never be forgiven."

"I am aware of that as well."

Tony clenched his fists, digging half-moon ridges into his palm. His father used to tell him that it was impossible to feel pain in more than one place. Even though this bit of advice had failed him before, he hoped it would help him now.

It didn't.

"Can you say my name for me?"

"Why?" Tony snapped. His patience was wearing thin, and Fury's dulled shouting in his ear was giving him a migraine.

The Prisoner gave a small smile. "I think I have forgotten it, so many the times I have been called the Prisoner. I tried saying my name at first to remember, but it became distorted and wrong. You say a word over and over again, until it starts sounding so wrong. I forget how it sounds; if it is spicy, or sweet, or something else."

"Your name..." It had been so long... "It is Loki."

Loki closed his eyes, a small smile seeking shelter on his lips. After a moment, he was back in reality.

"It is funny the power names have. That is one thing that you Midgardians have done right: Labelling things. Without names for people or items, they are nothing. People are labeled as beautiful, intelligent, strong, or worthless; it is strange, for labels are stronger than actions, sometimes."

"Labels are caused by actions; how the people act, you know," Tony corrected. He leaned heavily on the wall, massaging his forehead.

"Expectations as well. But you know that," was fired back in quickly. Tony nearly glared.

There was a brief silence, filled only with Loki's harsh breathing.

"I just realised something...I do not believe I will live through this war."

"What war?"

Loki pursed his lips, thinking. "This war that is going on – that will only get larger as time continues to tick on. It is happening as we speak..."

Tony immediately perked up; was this it? Was a little bit of idle chat all it took to get the man to speak the unspeakable:

Who had REALLY been behind 'Manhattan'?

But Loki stopped talking, instead opting to rest his sore body.

Tony sighed – seemingly for the millionth time that day. "I don't suppose you will tell me this either?"

Loki chuckled weakly, eyes cracking open. "No, that is for you to find out in time, Stark."

Tony was tired. He was done. These cryptic answers and convoluted stories were driving him insane.

"Why won't you just give me a straight answer?!" he snapped.

"Do you believe in redemption, Stark?"

Tony glared, gritting his teeth. "Answer my question."

"I will when you answer mine: Do you believe in redemption?"

"Depends on the person."

"Fine then. For me?" Loki asked.

Tony shook his head. "For you? Hell no."

"But for yourself? Do you or do you not believe that you can make up for the crimes of your past?"

Tony stepped away from the wall. "It is a process. I am still working on it."

"Then why can I not try?"

"YOU ARE TOO FAR GONE!" Tony snapped, grabbing ahold of Loki's nightshirt, after he had walked to the bed.

Loki merely raised an elegant eyebrow. "Perhaps. But what if I could do something to redeem myself? What then?"

"You could try, but the likelihood of there being something of such great importance that you could help with...well, it's very slim," Tony muttered, covering up the horror at what he almost did; the Prisoner probably couldn't have handled such a strong hit.

"And if there was?"

"It depends, I suppose..." Tony glanced at the door. He felt his time to leave the room had arrived.

He was almost at the door, when a quiet voice spoke. "'N'"

Tony raised an eyebrow at Loki, who was looking at him appraisingly. "Well, um... 'Q' to you too...?"

He left.

O_.~•*'*•~._.~•*'*•~._.~•*'*•~._O

"Tony?" a voice inquired, followed in succession by the closing of a door. Tony himself had been half asleep on his large leather couch – copious amounts of scotch and a marathon of the Lord of the Rings movies tended to do that.

"Tony?" the voice asked again, this time from the door of the room. The lights – which had been previously switched to the lowest possible setting – suddenly glared down upon him.

"Jesus Pepper! Turn them down!" he moaned dramatically, shoving his face into his arms. The suit that had been wearing earlier was now replaced by leisure-wear; so basically, Tony looked very un-put-together.

A woman with coppery-colored hair and gentle eyes came to stand in front of him; only right now, her face was rather stern, and her hands rested firmly on her hips.

"Tony Stark, do NOT talk to me that way!" she growled, standing so she was right in front of him. "And behave!"

Tony thrust his arms down, standing up suddenly; so suddenly, that Pepper yelped, blinking in shock.

Tony shook his head while striding to his liquor cabinet, muttering, "Why is everyone telling me to 'behave' today? It's like I'm a child..."

"Well sometimes..." Pepper murmured jokingly, picking up Tony's signature tablet; no work had been completed. Glancing up at Tony, her eyes took in his tired – almost sickly – appearance, making her understand why.

Sighing – much like a mother about to correct/reassure her child – Pepper Potts made her way over to the man riffling through his large collection of alcoholic beverages. "I'm joking you know."

Tony gave up his pursuit of 'sanity', instead opting to turn to his...Pepper (for there was hardly a correct way to define their relationship). "I know, Pep. It's just...been a long day."

She rubbed his shoulder gently, before dragging him over to the couch. For some reason, this particular piece of furniture always calmed him; perhaps it was how it was softer – more worn – than his other pieces (most were shiny and modern; the world's best). Maybe it was because of the thick smell of whiskey and life that orbited around it. It was most likely, though, that he liked it because it was his escape; next to his lab, he spent most of his time there.

Once they were settled comfortably on it, Pepper turned to him, waiting. When he said nothing, she sighed again.

"Tony...what happened today?"

"I went to SHIELD."

At this, her eyebrows shot up her forehead. Pepper knew Tony better than anyone else, but the fact that Tony Stark avoided SHIELD like the plague was well known.

"Why?" she questioned, finally.

He rubbed the back of his neck, before running a hand through his hair – a gesture Pepper recognized as a sign of insecurity. "Fury called earlier this week...he needed me to talk to..."

"To...him?" Pepper asked, looking quite worried now. She had heard about the previous interviews of the Prisoner; they had not turned out too well.

"Yes..." Tony answered, seemingly reluctant.

Pepper rubbed his leg encouragingly. "Well? How'd it go?"

Tony – for reasons unknown to her – suddenly brought up his shields. Smirking, Tony replied, "Well, I asked him questions, and he replied in the most complicated ways imaginable."

Pepper pulled away from Tony, crossing her arms. "Be serious."

"I always am." He smiled.

Pepper grumbled, climbing to her feet. "You are impossible. I try to help you, and you are just...impossible!"

"That's rather redundant, my dear!" he laughed, though the comment was only answered by the slamming of a door.

Sighing, Tony leaned back into his couch, feeling very confused.

O_.~•*'*•~._.~•*'*•~._.~•*'*•~._O

Tony got the call a week later; the call saying that Loki had died.

There had been no "beating around the bush", or whatnot. It had been a simple, undisguised, ungarnished fact: He had been fine the previous night, but he had been a lifeless corpse by morning.

There hadn't been anything to kill him. He had simply died, like it was 'his time'.

Tony was now dressed in a plain suit, driving one of his many sleek cars to SHIELD. Apparently, the whole team had been summoned as well; the good Captain had actually sped past him, driving like a 'bat out of hell' on his motorcycle.

Finally, Tony pulled into SHIELD base. After going through the – many – typical security measures (unnecessary, he believed), Tony was lead by a nameless SHIELD agent to a plain metallic meeting room...a room too similar to the Prisoner's previous one...

Tony forced these thoughts from his mind, as he swaggered into the room.

"Late as always, Stark," Fury growled, scowling. Tony shot a smirk at him, before smiling in a rather arrogant way towards the rest of his team.

Natasha and Clint were standing, never ones to let their guards down. Natasha looked on at the scene stoically, though Clint had a small frown resting on his lips. Agent Hill was standing beside them as well, looking as though she would much rather be shouting orders than standing in the crowded room. A few other agents were standing about as well, but that was most likely for 'security reasons'. Bruce Banner also looked uncomfortable, his fingers tapping an odd rhythm on his knee. Steve was sitting in between Bruce and Fury, awkward as ever.

And then he saw Thor. Well, he was hard to miss, really; the room was rather small.

Thor was in his typical garb: Heavy metal armor, bright red cape, and all. Even shoved in a corner, the God seemed to be radiant.

But...the light was somehow dulled today. Golden tanned skin was replaced with sickly grey, and the normally flowing golden locks fell limply around his face. Even the ever-luminescent blue eyes were dark and stormy.

"Hello, Stark," Steve greeted, trying to break apart the awkwardness that had fallen over the room like a suffocating wool blanket.

Bruce jumped aboard that path quickly. "Hey Tony. Nice to see you."

"Dito, fellas. Agents that perpetually have something shoved up their asses," Tony greeted, smirking as said 'agents' turned beet-red. "And Hammer Time! Didn't see you there!"

The air seemed to immediately tense, electricity crackling.

"Now is not the time to be joking, friend Stark," Thor said gravely.

Tony opened his mouth to make yet another inappropriate snarky comment, but Fury interrupted. "Not now, Stark. We have serious matters to take care of."

"Right, how the Prisoner kicked the bucket-"

"DO NOT SPEAK OF MY BROTHER IN SUCH WAYS!" Thor exploded, causing a sudden storm to brew outside.

Tony rolled his eyes, feigning his carelessness on the matter.

In reallity, the whole thing disturbed him immensely.

"Fine, whatever you say Thunder-pants," Tony muttered, half hoping Thor hadn't heard him.

Luckily, Bruce was whispering something to Thor, trying to calm him; it seemed to work.

"Director Fury." That was Natasha. "We all know the Prisoner is dead. Why have you summoned us here?"

Cepting for the fact that that was possibly one of the most blunt statements Tony had ever heard, Natasha had managed to make it sound polite. Of course.

Fury sighed, his singular eye showing just how tired and old he was. Tony vaguely wondered when he started noticing things like that...

"I believe that he...sent us a message."

"What?" was the near-simultaneous answer to that odd statement.

Fury shook his head. "We sent countless people into interview him: Psychologists, Agents, anyone whom was willing, really...but...to only a select few did he say something extra special."

Everyone looked confused...except for – oddly enough – Clint.

"The letters. Right?"

For a second, Tony had no idea what he was talking about. But then...Loki had randomly said 'N' at the end.

"Of course!" Thor exclaimed, suddenly excited. "It is like my brother to create puzzles for others to figure out, especially if he cannot directly give out information."

Bruce seemed to be contemplating something. "Then why not tell us the letters at the beginning, instead of going through the pointless interview? Why mess with our minds."

Steve answered right away. "Its as Director Fury said: He would only really talk to the people he deemed worthy."

"So he was testing us..." Natasha murmured, more to herself than the others. Honestly, she was surprised it took her this long to figure that out; decoding people and deciphering their minds were her specialty.

Thor looked at Natasha, nodding in agreement. "My brother is sly, and his powers vast. It was probably quite easy for him to gain access to each of our minds and thoughts."

"Whoa whoa whoa. He can read minds?" Tony gaped. Of course he knew that the Prisoner was a manipulative little ass, and he certainly knew how the common mind tended to work...but mind reading? Seriously?

Thor let a small, almost wistful laugh escape his lips. "My brother would hardly use such loose, Midgardian terms...but in a sense, yes; he can 'read minds'."

The inhabitants of the room seemed to shift slightly, obviously unnerved by the fact that a – seemingly – incapacitated man had strode calmly through their minds without their consent, nor having any idea that he was even THERE!

Thor smiled fondly, a faraway look in his eyes, causing a small spark to return. "Loki used to try and explain the complexities of his powers to me, but I always got bored and ended up daydreaming. I now wish I would have paid more attention...but his powers were wonderful, and the way he would talk about them! Oh, he could go on for hours, words as sweet and poetic like honey! And coming from a young teenager..."

"What would he say?" Bruce asked, forever gentle and kind.

Thor closed his eyes now, as though envisioning a scene from long ago in front of him...

"'It's so strange, Thor. I can feel it move; the universe. It's like it's alive, and there is so much power flowing around. I feel children being born and peoples' lives ending. It moves so fast and so beautiful; it doesn't seem like it should be staying together, but it does. Isn't it strange, Thor...?'" the blond recited, before opening his eyes.

Tony had to admit one thing: The God of Lies definitely had a way with words.

Thor sighed, rubbing his eyes. "He forever baffles me. And then these letters..."

Fury handed out a small piece of paper to everyone whom had been told a letter. Tony wrote down his 'N', Thor his 'A', Fury his 'S', Bruce his 'H', Steve his 'T', and the tag-team of Natasha and Clint their 'O'.

They laid the letters out, not sure what they were supposed to be looking for. They tried several combinations:

Oshant

Tonash

Shanto

Ontash

Haston

Etcetera etcetera etcetera...

So many combinations of the six letters, made seemingly every word formed appear more and more ridiculous.

Suddenly, Thor spoke: "Halt!"

"What is it?" Fury asked, his voice matching his name; the day had been very long.

The letters spelled out 'T-H-A-N-O-S'.

"Thanos? What does that mean?" Steve questioned.

Thor stared at the letters, then his teammates – friends.

"It means two things: One, we will need reinforcements, and two..."

Thor needn't continued, for Tony finished his sentence. "Loki has earned redemption."

O_.~•*'*•~._.~•*'*•~._.~•*'*•~._O

**_AN Why must I kill off Loki?! I love him! This piece was a bit poetic, I suppose; a LOT of imagery. It was fun to write, though. _**

**_Just saying, I wrote the majority of this on the return plane from Europe. A ten hour flight. Yep. _**

**_Anyway, thank you for reading, and please review!_**


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